Johnlock Folk Tales
by ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: What's missing from the stories of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, The Gingerbread Man, and Little Red Riding Hood? Sherlock and John, of course! Well, I've taken it upon myself to rectify that omission. Once upon a time...
1. Sherlock and the Three Watsons

**Sherlock and the Three Watsons**

Once upon a time, there were three Watsons who lived in a little house in the woods. One was Father Watson, one was Mother Watson, and one was little John Watson. Although they all shared the same name, that was just about the only thing they had in common.

One morning, Father Watson plopped three bowls of porridge down on the table. Each of the Watsons doctored up their porridge in a different way.

When little John Watson took a bite of his, he cried out in pain. "Ow! I've burnt my tongue!"

"What did you expect?" Mother Watson said. "Your father always makes the porridge too hot."

"Well, if you weren't so busy nursing a hangover, you could have made the breakfast yourself!" snapped Father Watson.

"Let's go for a walk, while we wait for our porridge to cool," suggested little John Watson.

With a bit of grumbling, Mother Watson and Father Watson joined their son for a walk in the woods.

While they were gone, a young boy named Sherlock came across the little house. Being a curious lad, and not overly constrained by legal niceties, he picked the lock on the front door and went inside.

Spotting the three bowls of porridge on the table, Sherlock went to investigate. First, he dipped his finger into Father Watson's bowl.

"This porridge is too salty," he said. "I deduce that this bowl belongs to a man who will soon die of a stroke."

Next, he stuck his finger into Mother Watson's bowl. "This porridge has whiskey in it," he said. "I deduce that this bowl belongs to a woman who will soon die of cirrhosis."

Finally, Sherlock tasted the porridge in John's bowl. "Ah…" he sighed, contentedly. "This porridge is just right — sweetened with a little bit of honey, exactly the way I make mine. I deduce that this bowl belongs to a boy whom I will like very much."

Although Sherlock rarely had much of an appetite, he found the porridge in John's bowl so delicious that he ate it all. And, although Sherlock rarely slept, once he'd finished his breakfast he found himself rather in need of a nap. So, he went upstairs in search of a place to rest.

First, Sherlock went into the master bedroom, where he found two beds, pushed up against opposite walls. "These beds are unfriendly," he said. "I deduce that they belong to a couple with marital problems. Perhaps they will kill each other before they can succumb to the stroke and the cirrhosis."

Then Sherlock went down the hall to the smaller bedroom, where he found a single bed. "Ah…" he said. "This bed looks quite inviting. I deduce that it belongs to a boy with whom I would not mind sharing it."

Sherlock lay down on John's bed, buried his face in John's pillow, and breathed in the scent of John. Soon, he was fast asleep.

Meanwhile, the three Watsons had finished their walk, and returned home. They found the front door of their little house wide open.

Mother Watson turned angrily to Father Watson. "Were you raised in a barn?" she demanded. "Why can you never remember to close the door?"

"You were the last one out!" Father Watson retorted. "But you're probably too drunk to remember that."

"Maybe the wind blew the door open," John suggested. "Let's go inside and see if our porridge is cool."

When the three Watsons entered the kitchen, they could immediately tell that something was amiss.

"Somebody's been eating my porridge!" said Father Watson.

"Somebody's been eating _my_ porridge!" said Mother Watson.

"Somebody's been eating _my_ porridge," said John Watson. "And it's all gone."

The three Watsons went upstairs and stepped into the master bedroom.

"Nobody's been sleeping in my bed," said Father Watson.

"Don't you lie to me, you cheater!" shouted Mother Watson. "I know you bring your trollops here when I'm not home!"

"Well, nobody's been sleeping in _your_ bed, 'cause by the time night falls you're always too drunk to make it up the stairs!" yelled Father Watson.

"Maybe we should look in my room," said John in a small voice. But his parents ignored him in favour of continuing their argument.

John walked down the hall to his room alone. Cautiously, he peeked inside. He saw a slender body on his bed, and a mop of dark curls upon his pillow. He crept closer.

Just then, Sherlock opened his eyes. He smiled when he saw John.

"Would you like to run away with me?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, god, yes!" John said.

Out the window the two boys climbed, onto the branch of a conveniently located tree, and then down to the forest floor. Hand in hand, they set off together into the woods.

And they lived happily ever after.

 _The End_

 **End Notes:** I find writing therapeutic. So, lots of stories today. If you enjoyed this, please leave a nice review. The world could use a little extra positivity right now. :)


	2. The Gingerbread Detective

**The Gingerbread Detective**

Once upon a time, there was an old woman named Mummy Holmes. She lived in a large house in the country with her husband. Mrs. and Mr. Holmes had one grown son, Mycroft, who rarely visited them.

On those infrequent occasions when he did come, all Mycroft was interested in doing was eating. In the hope of enticing her son to visit more often, Mummy Holmes purchased an enormous oven in which she could bake all of his favourite treats. This worked, but only after a fashion. Mycroft did, indeed, begin to come by more regularly, but he only stayed until the food was gone.

One morning, Mummy Holmes received notice that Mycroft would be dropping by the house later that day. Determined to ensure that he would remain as long as possible, she decided to bake something that even her gluttonous son would not be able to gobble up too quickly, something that might even tempt him into conversation.

Mummy Holmes gathered up the ingredients for gingerbread, mixed them thoroughly, and added a touch of magic. Then she shaped the dough into a man — six feet tall, perfectly proportioned, and anatomically correct. With a smile, she popped the gingerbread man into the oven.

Soon, the delicious scent of baking gingerbread filled the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes stood in front of the oven with their mouths watering, waiting for the timer to go off. The moment she heard it _ding_ , Mummy Holmes opened the oven door.

As soon as she did so, a man leapt out — a six foot tall, perfectly proportioned, anatomically correct gingerbread man. He dashed toward the door.

"Stop him!" cried Mummy Holmes.

But her husband just stood there, gawping in amazement.

 _"_ _Fools! Idiots! Your brains are defective!  
You can't catch me — I'm the gingerbread detective!"_

With that pronouncement, the gingerbread man threw open the door and raced out into the garden. After a beat of stunned silence, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes chased after him.

Mycroft chose this exact moment to arrive. He had just unlatched the gate when the gingerbread man rushed past him.

"Catch him!" cried Mummy Holmes.

Mycroft attempted to grab the gingerbread man, but years of overindulgence in everything edible had slowed his reflexes. The gingerbread man easily eluded him, racing away down the lane, and calling back over his shoulder:

 _"_ _Fools! Idiots! Your brains are defective!  
You can't catch me — I'm the gingerbread detective!"_

All of this commotion had drawn the attention of several neighbours, who came out of their homes to see what was happening. Imagine their surprise as a six foot tall, perfectly proportioned, anatomically correct gingerbread man dashed past.

"Stop him!" panted Mummy Holmes, as she tried valiantly to keep running.

The neighbours joined in the chase, but they were no match for the fleet-footed gingerbread man. He laughed as he called out:

 _"_ _Fools! Idiots! Your brains are defective!  
You can't catch me — I'm the gingerbread detective!"_

One by one, the gingerbread man's pursuers gave up in exhaustion, and went home. Soon, the gingerbread man was alone. He continued to run, though, for the sheer joy of being out in the fresh air.

Eventually, the gingerbread detective came to a crossroads. There he found a man, whom he immediately deduced was an army doctor, recently invalided home. The man leaned on a cane, and even though his limp was clearly psychosomatic, the gingerbread detective chuckled at the thought that this man would even attempt to catch him.

Stopping just out of arms' reach, the gingerbread man addressed the stranger:

 _"_ _Fool! Idiot! Your brain is defective!  
You can't catch me — I'm the gingerbread detective!"_

"Who said anything about trying to catch you?"

"Everyone wants to catch me."

"And why is that?"

"To eat me up, obviously."

"Well, you do look delicious," the man acknowledged, licking his lips. "But I certainly wouldn't eat you without your consent."

To his surprise, the gingerbread detective found that he believed this man. "Why would I ever consent to being eaten, though?" he asked.

"The feeling of someone's mouth on your body can be quite pleasurable. I'd be happy to show you, if you'd like. Why don't you come back to my house, where we can explore this topic in privacy?"

The gingerbread detective surprised himself once more by agreeing to this offer. He followed the man, who introduced himself as John, back to a cozy home, quite isolated from any neighbours.

Once they were inside, John told the gingerbread man to lie down upon the bed. The gingerbread man complied.

"May I kiss you?" John asked.

"Yes," replied the gingerbread man.

So John kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him some more.

"May I lick you?" John asked.

" _Yes_ ," sighed the gingerbread man.

So John licked him, and licked him, and licked him some more.

"May I suck you?" John asked.

" _Yes_ ," gasped the gingerbread man.

So John sucked him, and sucked him, and sucked him some more.

"May I nibble you?" John asked.

" _Yes_ ," moaned the gingerbread man.

So John nibbled him, and nibbled him, and nibbled him some more.

"May I bite you?" John asked.

" _Yes_ ," groaned the gingerbread man.

So John bit him, and bit him, and bit him some more.

"May I devour you?" John asked.

 _"_ _Yes!"_ cried the gingerbread man.

So John devoured him, until nothing remained but crumbs.

And that was the end of the gingerbread man.

 _The End_

 **End Notes:** I had a bit of a back-and-forth with myself over the ending of this one. It's the first story I've ever written without a traditional happily ever after. However, after much internal wrangling, I decided to stay true to the original folk tale, in which the gingerbread man is devoured by the fox. If it makes you feel better, you can imagine that the crumbs are magical, and when John wakes up the next morning, they will have become a real, flesh-and-blood Sherlock. Or, if, like somebody I know, you want John all to yourself, you can keep the ending as is. **;)**


	3. Little Red Buttonhole

**Little Red Buttonhole**

Once upon a time, there was a man who always wore a Belstaff, regardless of the weather. The top buttonhole on his coat had been specially stitched with red thread, and for this reason, the man came to be known as Little Red Buttonhole.

Little Red Buttonhole lived in a cozy flat above his landlady, Mrs. Hudson, of whom he was quite fond.

One morning, Little Red Buttonhole awoke to find a mysterious note on his kitchen table. Although it was written on Mrs. Hudson's stationary, he did not recognise the handwriting as his landlady's. Little Red Buttonhole read the note with interest:

 _Dear Little Red Buttonhole,  
Please excuse my messy handwriting. It is difficult for me to hold a pen at the moment, as I am dreadfully ill. Would you be a dear and pop 'round to the shops to fetch me some Lemsip? Just let yourself into my flat and bring the medicine to me in bed. I am afraid that I look quite a fright, but don't let my appearance alarm you.  
Your landlady,  
Mrs. Hudson_

Little Red Buttonhole was so concerned about his landlady's health that he did not stop to think. He immediately wrapped himself in his Belstaff and went out to do her bidding. But before he'd taken more than a few steps along the pavement, Little Red Buttonhole was accosted by a Big BAMF John.

"Where are you going, Little Red Buttonhole?" asked the Big BAMF John.

"My landlady is ill, and I'm going to the shops to pick up some medicine for her," replied Little Red Buttonhole.

"Oh, what a kind tenant you are," said the Big BAMF John. "And where exactly does your landlady live? I'm a doctor, you see, and I can go check on her while you fetch the medicine."

"I would appreciate that very much!" said Little Red Buttonhole. "My landlady, Mrs. Hudson, lives just over there, in 221A. Tell her that I sent you, and that I'll be along shortly with some Lemsip for her."

Feeling relieved that Mrs. Hudson would be in capable hands until he returned, Little Red Buttonhole skipped on his way to the shops. Once he had the medicine in hand, he hurried home and let himself into 221A.

"Mrs. Hudson," he called out. "I've brought you some Lemsip. Is the doctor still here?"

"No, dear, he just left," said a voice from the bedroom. It sounded much deeper and rougher than Mrs. Hudson's usual tone.

Little Red Buttonhole thought that his landlady must be very ill, indeed, to sound so strange. He went into the bedroom to find her lying in bed, with a cap on her head and the covers pulled up to her chin. She did not look at all like herself.

"Oh my, what big ears you have, Mrs. Hudson," said Little Red Buttonhole.

"The better to hear you with, my dear."

"Oh my, what big eyes you have, Mrs. Hudson."

"The better to see you with, my dear."

"Oh my, what big arms you have, Mrs. Hudson."

"The better to hold you with, my dear!" And with that, the covers were flung away, revealing the Big BAMF John, stark naked in the bed.

"Oh my, what a big cock you have!" cried Little Red Buttonhole.

"The better to fuck you with, my dear!" growled the Big BAMF John, as he pounced on Little Red Buttonhole and ravished him.

 _…_

The following morning, when Mrs. Hudson returned from visiting her sister, she tromped angrily up the stairs to 221B.

"It looks as if a wild animal was let loose in my flat, and I don't even want to know what those stains on the bed are," she snapped. "That is the last time I'm asking you boys to water my plants while I'm away!"

Sherlock and John caught each other's eyes, and burst into fits of giggles.

…

 **End Notes:** "Oh my, what nice reviews you leave," said the author.

"The better to encourage you to write us more stories, my dear," you replied.

;)


	4. John is NOT the Little Red Hen

**John is NOT the Little Red Hen**

Once upon a time, Sherlock was in a stroppy mood. Actually, it wasn't _once_ upon a time — it was quite a frequent occurrence. This particular stroppy mood, however, happened to coincide with John's decision to buy a new bed.

"Who will help me go to Ikea?" asked John.

"Not I," said Sherlock. "Ikea is full of idiots."

So John went to Ikea by himself. When he returned, he found Sherlock right where he'd left him, sulking on the sofa.

"Who will help me drag this box up the stairs?" asked John.

"Not I," said Sherlock. "Dragging boxes is a drag."

So John dragged the box up the stairs by himself. He opened it up and took out the instruction leaflet.

"Who will help me figure out these ridiculously complicated directions?" asked John.

"Not I," said Sherlock. "Those directions were written by language-impaired toddlers with no sense of spacial awareness."

So John figured out the ridiculously complicated directions by himself. He gathered the tools he would need, and laid out all of the parts in some semblance of order.

"Who will help me build this bed frame?" asked John.

"Not I," said Sherlock. "Building beds is boring."

So John built the bed frame by himself. He was proud of his accomplishment, but his work wasn't done.

"Who will help me go mattress shopping?" asked John.

"Not I," said Sherlock. "Mattress shops are full of morons."

So John went mattress shopping by himself. He tried each mattress, until he found one that was just right. Deciding that even _he_ would be incapable of wrestling a king size mattress up two flights of stairs without help, he arranged to have it delivered.

Once the new mattress was in place, John asked, "Who will help me make up this bed with fresh linens?"

"Not I," said Sherlock. "Fresh bedding is for fools."

So John made up the bed himself. It looked quite inviting.

"Who will help me use this bed?" asked John.

"Not I," said Sherlock. "Sleeping is stupid."

"Who said anything about sleeping?" asked John.

Sherlock's stroppy mood suddenly evaporated, never to return. Well, at least not as frequently. And when it did make an unwelcome reappearance, John knew just the remedy.

So they lived — _mostly_ happily — ever after.

 _The End_

 **End Notes:** "Who will read this without leaving a nice review?" I asked. (You know your line, right?) **;)**

I'm marking this story complete, because I have to make myself stop adding chapters to this while I've got two other WIPs that I've been neglecting. Since each of these tales is a stand-alone, though, I may eventually write some more. :)


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